


Nichirin

by Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody



Series: Windmills & Windowsills [5]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: M/M, Scala ad Caelum (Kingdom Hearts)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 11:15:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18872071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody/pseuds/Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody
Summary: The path that's been laid out for Eraqus is like the sun: bright, warm, and blinding.





	Nichirin

Eraqus walks to the training hall with his chessboard under his arm and a spring in his step. His day has been excellent—he might go so far as to call it exemplary. First, the dining hall had served mango with breakfast. Xehanort had passed it up while Eraqus had filled an entire bowl. His friend might not see anything special about the tropical fruit, but to Eraqus, it’s still a rarity and a delicacy.

Secondly, and most noteworthy, is the fact that Eraqus finally, finally, _finally_ managed to harness the element of light. Their magic instructor insisted on holding class outdoors, due to the beautifully sunny weather that morning. Nobody had a problem with that, at least not until it was Eraqus’s turn to show his progress. He surprised everyone—himself included—by summoning the light in an instant, and the rest of the class rushed to shield their eyes as the blaze reflected off the white buildings with twofold brightness. “Very good, Eraqus!” their instructor said as she squinted past her fingers. “Amazing progress, very impressive, _please stop now_.”

It _was_ an impressive feat, objectively speaking, and Eraqus wasn’t shy about lapping up praise afterward, though he made sure he kept a modest demeanor. In his experience, acting humble about an extraordinary accomplishment was almost as satisfying as the accomplishment itself. Plus, he felt a little guilty that his classmates had tried to compliment him while blinking the blind spots out of their eyes.

But as proud as he was, there were certain details about his brush with light that he chose to keep to himself. The other magic elements had lived up to Eraqus’s exact expectations. After all, everyone knew how fire moved, how water tasted, how gravity felt. But light was… _truly_ alive, with a will of its own. Brilliant and ethereal, pulsing, stretching like dough, writhing out of his grasp like a snake the harder he tried to contain it. Sinuous one moment, stiff and fibrous the next. Potentially the most malleable element, yet also the most difficult to master.

And Eraqus _held_ it, however briefly, in his own two hands. He’s had hours to wrap his head around that fact, and it’s still as unbelievable to him as a dream.

The third thing that’s elevating his day from good to great is that he’s on his way to meet Xehanort for a chess game. Despite their increasingly busy schedules, they manage to find time for a match on a weekly basis—every two weeks, at the most.

Eraqus is especially eager today. He’d been swarmed by classmates and pulled aside by his instructor after class, and by the time he extricated himself from the crowd, Xehanort was already gone. Eraqus had been disappointed, but he didn’t take it personally. Neither one of them had as many afternoons to spare as they used to. It had been a long time since they’d last stretched out on the grass beneath the windmills, the sails casting shadows over them as they dozed, a never-ending rotation of darkness and light, darkness and light.

But an afternoon on their favorite windowsill is still doable. And, like the tropical fruit Eraqus indulged in over breakfast, these quiet afternoons are all the more special for their rarity.

He climbs the final set of stairs and asks himself, far from the first time, why it’s so essential that their training takes place at the top of a tower. He catches his breath for a few minutes, then continues down the corridor. It’s one of his favorite passages in the tower—it makes use of its space with arched ceilings, marbled pillars, and full-length windows. Eraqus smiles as he walks across the sunny patches on the floor. He can’t help feeling that he’s experiencing light in a brand new…well, light.

His classmates’ admiration had been nice, and praise from his instructor is always a plus. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to Xehanort’s reaction in particular. Eraqus wants his approval, and maybe even his envy, but more than that, he wants to share the experience with him. The light had felt so _interesting_ , so unexpectedly tangible. He wants to describe it to Xehanort, just to see if he even can.

As he approaches the door to the training hall, he hears something that gives him pause. It’s a familiar sound, one he’s heard often enough, but the violin has always had a foreign quality to him. Not a foreignness of “where” so much as “when.” No matter how modern the music is, it feels as if it’s being drawn out of the ancient past. It’s an instrument that warps time, filling the vaulted hall with the ghostly strains of another age. Eraqus listens from the corridor for a few minutes, then nudges the huge wooden door open, just enough for him to squeeze inside without a sound.

Xehanort stands across the room, facing the far windows. He cradles the violin between his chin and shoulder as he draws out each note slowly and methodically. It’s not a surprise that he can play it. Everyone who trains in Scala is encouraged and expected to be a well-rounded student, supplementing their studies with a focus in history, art, literature, and so on.

But as Xehanort glides the bow across the E string, coaxing out a high, sweet note that stops just short of shrill, Eraqus wonders when he learned how to make the instrument sound so good. He’d been awful in the beginning, like everyone was. His instructor had assured him that it was a tricky instrument, and that the harder he tried to make it sound good, the worse it would come out.

As a firm believer in perseverance and pushing himself until his effort yielded results, Xehanort hadn’t taken that advice well. For a while, his practice sessions weren’t too different from his combat training: he fought with the violin to elicit even one acceptable note, and the violin fought back, refusing to do anything of the sort. When Xehanort’s frustration was at its peak, Eraqus had feared that he would succumb to it and take the violin down with him, forcing him to explain a thousand very expensive wooden splinters and snapped strings to his instructor.

But eventually, through dogged determination and a willingness to question his own methods, Xehanort’s hard work paid off. He plays now with an almost paradoxical blend of extreme precision and gentle touches, and his results speak for themselves.

Eraqus doesn’t want to put a stop to the music, but he doesn’t want to spy or sneak up on Xehanort, either. He grapples with whether to speak up or not until Xehanort makes the choices for him. He lifts the bow off the string and lets the final note fade from existence before he says, without turning around, “What took you so long?”

Eraqus smiles. “Better question: how’d you know I was here?”

“The room got brighter all of a sudden,” Xehanort replies as he turns around and lowers the violin. Eraqus isn’t sure if that was sarcasm and he should act offended, or if it was a compliment and he should be flustered. He ends up doing neither, simply crossing the room to go to their windowsill.

“Well, don’t let me interrupt,” he says as he lays the chessboard down and takes a seat in his usual spot beside it. “Finish practicing while I set up.”

Xehanort nods and raises the violin and bow again while Eraqus removes the chess pieces from their case. He barely looks at the board as he arranges them, and when he’s done, he opens the window a few inches and leans back against the wall. The warm breeze melts together with the warm sound of the violin, and Eraqus gets a pleasurable chill all the way around the back of his head.

Violins sound like the color gold, he thinks. The music is like sunlight: rich and bright, and sometimes a little too sharp for the senses, but beautiful, and brimming with life. Eraqus spaces out while he listens to Xehanort play, until Xehanort stops again and asks, “What?”

Eraqus blinks and realizes he’s been absentmindedly staring in Xehanort’s general direction for at least the past minute, if not longer. “Oh,” he says, laughing at himself. “Nothing. Sorry. My brain’s a little fried after this past week. I think your music is putting me to sleep.”

Xehanort raises his eyebrow and plays some staccato notes, plucking the strings for emphasis. “Much better,” Eraqus says. “Nice and obnoxious.”

“Oh, it should be. It’s based on your fighting style.”

That one is meant to be an insult, Eraqus is sure, but it’s a fond one. Xehanort bows swiftly and sharply as he alternates between staccato and spiccato, conveying a sense of liveliness and energy with so little movement and so much control. If that’s how he sees Eraqus’s fighting style, then Eraqus is flattered.

When Xehanort tires of teasing Eraqus, or just of playing with this particular technique, he returns to his previous piece. It suits him like the staccato suited Eraqus. Patient, disciplined, fluid. Eraqus tilts his head back against the wall. “That’s beautiful,” he says, and Xehanort thanks him by continuing to play it. “What’s the name of this one again? It sounds familiar.”

“It shouldn’t.”

Eraqus glances at Xehanort and raises his eyebrows. “Did you write this?”

“Maybe.” When Eraqus continues to stare, Xehanort adds, a little more cooperatively, “It’s a work-in-progress. I haven’t figured out how to finish it yet.”

Eraqus is stunned. He listens to the music more closely now that he knows who its composer is. There’s something in its tone…not quite wistful, not quite ominous. Something in between. Eraqus isn’t sure if there’s a word for it. “Well…what’s it called?”

Xehanort shrugs, which disturbs his playing a little. “No name.”

“Ah,” Eraqus says knowingly, his gaze straying across the room to where the ornate Keyblade hangs on its ceremonial mantle. “An ode to antiquity.”

Xehanort snorts. “Thanks. I’ve been trying to come up with the most pretentious title ever.”

Eraqus grins, but their conversation has finally put an end to the music. Xehanort loosens the bow and puts it away, then kneels beside the case and removes a small cloth from it. Eraqus watches him clean the rosin off the violin, devoting the same meticulousness and care to it as he does to everything. “I’m surprised you chose this as one of your extracurriculars,” he remarks. “Seems a little free-form for you.”

“It’s very mathematical,” Xehanort says as he lays the violin to rest in its case. “Music is a science as much as an art.”

“It was beautiful,” Eraqus says again. Xehanort half nods as he shuts the case, a task which apparently requires all of his concentration. Eraqus smiles at his non-response. Sometimes Xehanort is arrogant beyond belief, and sometimes he’s the hardest person in the world to compliment, refusing any praise that doesn’t come wrapped in a dozen layers of sarcasm.

When Xehanort finishes putting everything away, he rises to his feet, dusts his hands off on his pants, and nods at the chess board. “Still up for a game?”

“Always,” Eraqus replies. He may be outshining his peers in Keyblade training, and Xehanort may be excelling in his artistic pursuits, but chess is still a level playing field. He sits up straighter and winces when his back cracks. He rubs it gingerly, and Xehanort gives him a playfully reproachful look as he sits down.

“You need to stretch more.”

“Nah, I just need better posture,” Eraqus says, and Xehanort chuckles, unable to argue with that. In training, Eraqus’s stances are flawless. Xehanort has a tendency to be a little too defensive, guarded to the point of drawing in on himself. Eraqus holds his Keyblade firmly in both hands, equally prepared to attack or defend, a picture of discipline and confidence.

In his downtime, however, he’s a picture of comfortable, jelly-limbed slouching. He demonstrates this fact by pushing the chessboard closer to Xehanort so he can lie down, stretching out on his stomach on the sunny windowsill like a cat. If anyone else had tried that, Xehanort would have told them to either take the game more seriously or forget it altogether. But the rules that apply to everyone else don’t apply to each other, and Xehanort knows that Eraqus is more of a match for him lying down and half-asleep than the other students are at full capacity.

They play in silence for a while, both refreshed and soothed by the warm breeze. Xehanort rests his elbow on his knee and his cheek against his fist, propping his head up while he thinks about his next move. Eraqus crosses his arms and lays his head on them, his nose and mouth buried in his large sleeves.

They’ve played enough chess games together for it to be an almost mindless activity, when they want it to be. In Eraqus’s drowsiness, it feels like déjà vu. He doesn’t even notice that he’s doing anything out of the ordinary until Xehanort, without looking up from the board, mutters, “That’s not how it goes.”

Eraqus pauses, then realizes that he’s not only been humming quietly, but that he’s been humming Xehanort’s untitled composition. Or his closest approximation, anyway. “You said it was a work-in-progress,” he counters, capturing a bishop that Xehanort swears he hadn’t left unguarded, but which he’s too tired to care about. “Maybe I’m helping you finish it.”

“Wow. How generous _and_ presumptuous of you.” Eraqus smiles and waits for Xehanort to make his next move. After a moment of consideration, he moves his remaining bishop and says, “Keep going.”

They continue their game, accompanied only by the soft but solid _tap_ of the chess pieces being put in place and the sound of Eraqus’s humming. He gets through as much of Xehanort’s composition as he can remember before branching off into his own capricious melody. Xehanort doesn’t mind the artistic liberties. Eraqus has little to no understanding of musical structures, but that just means that Xehanort can’t predict which cluster of notes he’s going to hum next. For all his diligence and planning, Xehanort has always been a fan of surprises, and Eraqus never fails to deliver.

While Eraqus is contemplating his next move, Xehanort gazes out the window and does some contemplating of his own. Eraqus is becoming formidable fast, and all the more formidable because he doesn’t boast it. Of course, he’s been formidable since day one for that exact reason, felling Xehanort on the training mat before he could blink and giving the newcomer a lesson in his own cockiness.

But now, Eraqus has reached a new level. From where Xehanort had stood that morning, Eraqus hadn’t seemed to summon the light so much as simply be a vessel for it. It had flocked to him, settled around him like mist, as if a bit of sunlight had come loose from the sky and graced him with its company. Xehanort is curious to know if this is how it had felt for Eraqus, too. He’s spent the whole day wondering about it, but he doesn’t ask. If Eraqus wants to share his experience, then he will, and if he’d rather keep it to himself, then it isn’t Xehanort’s place to pry.

He returns his attention to the game when he notices the humming has stopped, and—he doesn’t know why he’s surprised, because when _hasn’t_ Eraqus dozed off around mid-afternoon on a training day? He really is suited to the light, Xehanort thinks as he looks him over, fast asleep and cradled in the warmth of a sunbeam. Then again, it’s possible that the light simply took too much out of him this morning. It’s a beautiful element, but not a passive one. Casting light spells is a tug-o-war between the magic and its wielder; even Masters can’t make it look completely effortless. And unlike darkness, light doesn’t seem fond of being called upon. It’s a force of nature, and sometimes Xehanort can’t help questioning whether anyone was ever meant to wield it at all.

Still, Eraqus’s instructors will push him along that path, now that he’s shown a proclivity for it. Just like they put that ancestral Keyblade in his hands: both a physically heavy weapon and a daunting reminder of the duty of stewardship that Eraqus’s life has been molded to fulfill.

And Eraqus will never admit that any of these expectations he’s supposed to meet—if not _exceed_ —are a burden. As always, he’ll refer to it as a privilege to have been chosen, and he’ll say nothing of the privilege to make the choice for himself. He’ll insist on this, even as the pressure mounts and more and more is demanded of him.

But for now, he looks at peace. The light that slants through the window isn’t being wielded by him; it descends with neutrality and gentleness, softening his already soft features. His hair is like smudged charcoal, and it hangs over what little of his face isn’t buried in his sleeves.

Xehanort hesitates, just to make sure Eraqus won’t wake up at the most inopportune moment. He wouldn’t put it past him—tricksters are tricksters, even in sleep. When Eraqus doesn’t stir and his breathing stays steady, Xehanort reaches across their unfinished game and brushes his hair aside with the backs of his fingers, just enough to see from the bridge of his nose to his forehead.

He leans back and sits there for a while, watching over Eraqus as he sleeps. The sunlight is so clear that Xehanort can see dust motes swirling in it, and a few of them catch on Eraqus’s eyelashes. His neck will probably get a little stiff, but it’ll be no worse than when he falls asleep on top of the texts he’s studying. At least this way he won’t wake up with ink on his face.

When Xehanort finally needs to stretch his legs and back, he rises to his feet and starts to clean up the chess game. He moves slowly and silently, laying each gilded piece in its proper place inside the velvet-lined box. The chess set is a family heirloom, like Master’s Defender, and although it’s nowhere near as powerful or important, Xehanort treats it with ten times the reverence he would give to that Keyblade. He puts the pieces away with meticulous care, the same care he employs for tasks like perfecting his tai chi forms, or cleaning his musical equipment, or brushing his sleeping friend’s hair out of his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I just liked the idea of Xehanort studying the violin so he could eventually learn how to play his own boss theme.


End file.
